Hello Steemians. I am happy to be sharing another character with you today. I am passionate about this stuff and its great to be able to share! 🐉
I would like to thank the top 3 supporters of my last post, your comments and upvotes were appreciated!
Just some updates. Still looking around for some roll/role play related fun/concepts on Steemit, but I have a few ideas and items on the radar.
Still looking for any collaboration around content for fantasy settings, drawing, maps, lore etc. To that effect tho, I have found an artist who might be keen. So I'm hoping for the best!!
There is a little known legend about a clan of dwarves who many years ago were given a sacred charge by a powerful diety. They left their brethren, and headed into the hills to begin their duty.
When the story is told around the Fireside to young dwarven tots, it is often said that the clan were honor bound to guard an entrance, a doorway through which evils would pour should they be negligent in their task.
Of course none could even know what site or vision persuaded the elders of the clan to divorce themselves from the rest of dwarven kind, and indeed the pain of that parting is contained within dusty parchments near forgotten by all except the sages.
But Belor remembers it well. For those were his people, though he remembers not what they were called. A reclusive tribe who knew nothing about the outside world, they had only their rituals, and their long promised duty to Tritherion to guard the sacred stones. As the elders told it Tritherion had stepped from a flaming forge, and compelled those present to his will, giving into the hands of the eldest a burning three pronged spiral adorning a wooden amulet. As the wheel cooled, a small stone continued to glow at its heart. Awestruck and following the echoes of a divine voice echoing in their minds, they mustered their people and left the Dwarven stronghold of Felgrondale, they were never seen by their people. Indeed the scraps remembered by Belor of his childhood tales spoke often of devotion and divinity, and of a lifestyle unchanged for generations.
On one fateful day, the shadows closed in too early, and too far; piercing the tribe with an early night, and eating at the fringes hastily erected fires. Then a shape, wreathed in whispey tendrils flowed from the fires, and addressed them, commanding rapture from all present. It spoke in their minds of a duty well done in the guarding of the stones, and of a time of reckoning coming. It proffered a symbol, a glyph of divine power at the feet of the eldest dwarf. A flash of light resonated through the minds of the watchers as the icon touched the earth, a wheel of flame spinning behind the eyes.
Years later the remnants of the clan looked on that night as the time when everything began to change.
A tribe of Orcs staking claim to nearby lands began to waylay them, but hardened and ready for the promised trials, the dwarves fought valiantly and though diminished, reduced the Orcish threat.
Then came the drought, followed by the longest winter in memory, food was all but depleted.
However, though they drank boiled leather for meals, the clan’s resolve did not falter.
Then came the night of shadows. Belor remembers little of this night, except for the confusion, the screaming. Viscous shades and wraiths, leering from tent canvas and the faces of friendly dwarves mercilessly slew. As the chaos turned to burning, to Belor’s utter revulsion, the old hunger panged, and his mouth began to water, and stomach yearn as he smelled burning dwarf flesh. Afraid and confused he fled to the hills…
The following morning the survivors picked their way through the remains of the homestead, burned and strewn with bodies, and not a single foe to be found, a cursed stench lay heavy in the air. Too few they were to rebuild, burying several dozen of their clans folk took the remainder of the day. That evening, broken and defeated, the survivors collected all that remained of their heritage; two of their sacred triskelions, one blacked and cracked by fire, only a third to be found, the other, the ancient triangular amulet, pulled from the clasped fist of a burned dwarf, was pristine.
In despair, they turned and left those grounds, to seek something better they thought, a fresh start. They could seek out and tend to the rune scarred gates once they resettled.
Yet fate had no kindness in store for them, clanless, with no claim to the unknown wilderness they travelled, they were ostracized by local lords in their fiefdoms, and preyed on by beast and ruffians. The survivors slew many orcs, goblins, opportunistic bandits and beats such as Owlbears as they wondered. Though their victories were great and the slain numerous, always their numbers dwindled alongside. Sickness and age slew the few remaining elders, infants were still born, and still they could find no rest and lay no claim on the lands they found.
This decline continued, until one inevitable day, many, many years later, with all but the slightest whisp of their past remembered, the yolk of leadership fell to Belor. As he held in his hands the Waraxe of the eldest, and the triskelion settled about his neck, he resolved to reclaim purpose and position in the world.
Belor led his surviving clansmen for several years, although Belor’s leadership seemed strong, ill fate was never far behind, the oxen died before their time, supplies were often spoiled, sickness and injury that should have passed easily became wasting. And still bandits, goblins and once even a savage clan of dwarves with hate in their eyes, whittled their numbers, until Belor’s final kinsman fair Grundhel died in his arms from an arrow to the throat.
It was then that Belor truly knew solitude. Wondering a desolate wasteland, spoken only in harsh whispers as the Bleak, in his isolation and despair he found within himself a thread connected to a greater power. The thread thrummed when he touched the ancient amulet, the Triskelion of his people. Deep in contemplation he wondered the wastelands, traversing the bitter, twisted black plain which stretched between horizons.
Eventually he crossed the plain having survived off little beyond the tenuous connection, and a name remembered from a time before the night of the shades, Tritherion, whispered around the firesides of his youth, remembered now as a distant echo. He had only the clothes on his back, and his worldly possessions.
Fate treated him better in the new land, and like a lone wolf he roamed, doing good where he was able, finally he met a group of ragtag adventurers in the tavern of The Cuckold Rooster, in a tiny village some ways off from the port town of Saelesstor. They spoke of grand plans, of making a difference in the world. Curious he continued quietly listening in, until he overheard talk of recruitment, and decided to volunteer his services. Though surprised, they took it as a good omen that someone wanted to join their venture right away, and they drew him into the folds of their plan.
Long into the night over many ales, he and the companions discussed how they might come to pool and grow influence so that they might one day have a say in the shaping of the world around them. It was decided that night to begin a guild.
And so they swore an oath to provide open shelter to like minded adventurous souls, to share knowledge to combine strengths, to aid those in need or plight. And so the guild was formed and they called themselves The Guild of Dungeoneers.
Dependable and committed to trust. However due to years of isolation, he tends to be quite introverted in day to day interactions.
He bears the yolk of his failed kin, he sees the guild as new clansmen, and is determined to see them thrive and be lead well.
Stubborn, used to getting his own way.
Does not abide to killing outside of honorable combat.
Loyalty and trust are highly valued.
The oppressed and those who cannot fight for themselves must be liberated.
General Traits
He longs to uncover the secret of his people, and the half remembered duty to the sacred stones so long ago, and so far away.
He keeps the symbols of his people, the Triskelion amulet, the the Triskelion shard on his person at all times.
He does not have a large appetite for adventure, he is happy to attend to the daily running of the guild as far as he is able.
He has a hunger to learn more about Tritherion, known as a God of War. He is sure that this is whose strength flows through the Triskelion, but knows little more. He seeks any information, knowledge or places of worship in this land.
